


Traditions Are The Root Of Love

by WordsAblaze



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Shopping, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Gaby ships it, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mistletoe, Napollya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 14:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17122802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsAblaze/pseuds/WordsAblaze
Summary: Illya doesn't care for Christmas and Napoleon has never celebrated it properly. But maybe a team effort and Gaby's intervening can create the perfect experience... Written for the tmfu winter fic exchange, enjoy!





	Traditions Are The Root Of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el_spirito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el_spirito/gifts).



> Merry Christmas!
> 
> I'm not sure this is exactly what you wanted but it's what I was able to manage after a few technical hiccups! I hope you enjoy it! xo

Napoleon had never really given Christmas a second thought but the fact that Illya hadn’t even given it a complete first thought made him stop and give it an entire contemplation. 

The three of them had been finishing off the boring parts of their mission, the written report and the evaluation of sorts, when Gaby had suddenly stood up from the sofa and stretched, clicking a good few bones in the process.

“This silence is overbearing, anyone know which station plays Christmas songs?” she asks, already walking over to their little - definitely not stolen - radio.

Before Napoleon can reply, Illya scoffs. “Is not Christmas yet, why would we need Christmas music?”

Gaby and Napoleon both turn to him, shocked and mildly concerned, but it’s Gaby who narrows her eyes and says, “Illya, Christmas starts as soon as November does.”

“It is pointless scam to make money.” Illya waves a hand dismissively, attaching one of their better recon photos to the report. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Napoleon mutters, taking the glue from Illya before he can ignore them any further. “Are you telling me you ignore the whole thing until it’s about to be over?”

Illya looks up at that, albeit mostly just to take the glue back, which he does rather forcefully. “You said you had never properly celebrated either so why are you surprised?” 

A soft, exasperated sigh escapes Gaby as she switches the radio on without bothering to try and find a station, hoping for the best, then flops back down between the two of them, glancing between them seriously. “Why am I stuck with the only two men in the world who don’t indulge in festivities?”

“Are we meant to answer that?” Napoleon asks, leaning back and raising an eyebrow.

“Can we just finish mission and move on?” Illya asks, already filling in another one of the endless pages. 

Napoleon gives him a pointed look and where Illya’s display of determination would usually cause pride and respect, it now leaves remorse and an idea that Gaby seems to catch on to surprisingly quickly, within half a sideways glance. 

They go back to it, of course, it is a team effort after all, but as soon as they’ve reached a respectable place to stop - almost the end, to be fair - Napoleon takes the pen from Illya and Gaby scoops up the papers as smoothly as a heron.

“And that’s the end of that for now!” Napoleon grins.

Illya glares. Menacingly. 

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Peril, I’ve hardly stolen your left lung,” Napoleon says both defensively and just because he can, which are really two of the main reasons he does anything, ever. 

“First up, Christmas shopping!” Gaby announces, making her way across the room and chucking their coats at them before slipping her own on, a determined look on her face and a thoughtful glint in her eye that neither of them wants to argue with. 

Begrudgingly, Illya pulls himself up and takes one last glance at the unfinished report before letting Gaby loop her arm in his, her other arm looped through Napoleon’s, of course, as the three of them start moving. 

“Must we do this right now?” Illya asks sourly, even though the cold outside clearly affects him the least.

Napoleon sighs. “When have we ever successfully changed Gaby’s plans? And no, don’t bring up chess games because they don’t count.” 

Since there are no examples outside of their numerous chess games, the three of them end up at the most lowkey supermarket around, immediately heading to the bakery section.

“Fruit and sugar, no big deal,” Illya complains. 

“It is a mince pie and you will give it the respect it deserves!” Gaby frowns, grabbing a couple of packets and slipping them into the basket she’d surreptitiously picked up. 

Napoleon’s turn leads to him picking up some DIY gingerbread men next, grinning childishly. “You have not lived if you haven’t terribly decorated a gingerbread man and I’d rather not leave my life in the hands of a dead man so you absolutely cannot refuse to take part.” 

Surprisingly, all Illya picks up from that is: “You would leave your life in my hands?” 

Feeling the blood rush to his face, Napoleon clears his throat roughly. “All part of the job, right?”

“Right,” Illya echoes blankly. 

Gaby clicks her tongue at them in disapproval but moves on, grabbing overly iced cupcakes and sparkling water instead of alcohol because she claims she’d rather they be sober so they can remember their first Christmas together. Illya, to his credit, only complains minimally, until they get to the clothing section. 

“No,” he says bluntly, as soon as Gaby picks up a green hat with a tinsel bobble on the top.

“You’re right,” Napoleon replies smoothly before smirking at Gaby, “I think red suits him better, don’t you?” 

She snorts. “Suit yourself,” she mutters, picking up two red hats and a green one before moving on, leaving the two men to stare after her in confusion. 

“Why did you not celebrate?” Illya inquires suddenly, turning to Napoleon with a rare, curious look. 

Napoleon just shrugs at first but he knows that stubborn look in Illya’s eyes so he adds: “There was never really much point, too many things to worry about and too many people chasing me to allow a night of carelessness. I would rather not do something than do it pitifully.” 

Illya’s expression softens considerably. “But now it is worth it?” 

Slowly, Napoleon nods. “Yeah, it seems to be, don’t you think? Waverly will definitely give us bonus points for enjoying the festive traditions together.” 

Despite the serious element to their conversation, Illya laughs. “That I can agree with.”

“Alright, Peril, let’s go find Gaby,” Napoleon says, sending one last scowl to the hideous outfits behind them as they head towards the exit, figuring that she’s already paid. 

Which she has. 

“Took you long enough!” she grumbles lightly when they arrive, refusing to hand over the bags and marching ahead. 

Napoleon and Illya share a sideways glance but follow her anyway, engaging in only the mildest of chatter until they get back to their rented apartment. They must have spent longer than they’d thought shopping because it’s almost pitch black when they get back, meaning that it takes them an unnecessarily long time to find the right corridor and unlock the door. 

“So now we finish our report, yes?” Illya asks, not really waiting for an answer. 

Gaby gives him one by throwing a red hat at him. “Get back here and help me unpack or so help me I will confiscate your glue stick!” 

“Really, Gaby, you should have gone with his chess set,” Napoleon comments as he places the green one on her head before putting the other red one on for himself, raising an eyebrow at Illya, who sighs defeatedly and slides his own hat on too. 

Gaby looks shocked for a second before dumping the bags on the counter and starting to pull things out. “Gingerbread men first, right?”

“Sounds perfect!” Napoleon agrees, taking the packets from her and setting them out on the table, opening the little icing tubes and tiny containers of sweets and what looks like glitter. 

Illya simply watches, occasionally moving forward to help before thinking better of it and staying in one spot, his arms folded and a faint smile appearing on his face as he watches his team set up festivities for him. 

Sparkling water is poured out into sparkling glasses, a log cake is unwrapped and placed on a somewhat garish doily, and Napoleon even dares to wrap tinsel around Illya’s neck. The tinsel is promptly removed and used by Gaby as a scarf but Napoleon escapes the situation with no injuries so it’s a win from his perspective. 

“So, what do I do to this biscuit?” Illya asks once they’re all seated. 

Gaby raises the most sceptical eyebrow she’s ever raised at him. “Are you serious, Illya? You simply use the decorations to create something that resembles a person.” 

Her tone is exactly why none of them says a word until they’re done, at which point Illya has broken two gingerbread men and Napoleon has accidentally squeezed green icing over Gaby’s face, earning himself a dousing in the contents of her glass.

“I think mine is best,” Illya says, glancing between theirs. 

Napoleon takes one look at his and bursts out laughing, finding it hard to comprehend that Illya had taken it so seriously and genuinely made his look like an exact replica of himself. Even Gaby is speechless, blinking at him in shock before giggling. “You Russians never do anything halfway, do you?”

“Why would we?” Illya shrugs, then bites the head of his gingerbread man with a smile. “That was quite fun, thank you.”

Matching soft smiles settle on his teammates’ faces before they share a relieved look and eat their creations too, after which Gaby leaves to ‘freshen up’ and the other two put any rubbish in the bin before waiting for her to get back so they can cut the cake together. 

“Did you do this?” Illya asks suddenly.

“Peril, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that.” Napoleon folds his arms, twisting in his seat a little to look at Illya better. 

Illya rolls his eyes. “Decorating. Did you do it when you were young?” 

After a moment’s hesitation, Napoleon shrugs. “Yes. And no. I will admit I’ve stolen from bakeries in the past; you can draw your own conclusions, I presume.” 

Something like sympathy flashes in Illya’s eyes but he quickly buries it, not allowing his mind to venture into why he wishes better for a thief. Instead, he focuses on changing the topic, asking: “Gaby has been gone long, don’t you think?” 

Napoleon sighs in what might be disappointment or agreement. “Probably getting that icing off her face.”

“Was not that much icing, cowboy,” Illya argues.

“Alright, then maybe she’s throwing holly leaves all over your bed so that you finally learn to take a joke?” Napoleon smirks. 

Either way, when she does get back, she makes a big fuss about cutting the cake herself, muttering something about the two of them acting too much like children to be in charge of a knife. Of course, they don’t argue against her and she dishes out a piece to each of them, smiling proudly.

“What is it, what have you done?” Napoleon asks suspiciously. 

“Just enjoy your log and, Illya: there is liquid chocolate in the middle so be careful because you seem to be wearing white for some reason.” 

Illya hums, already having eaten a spoonful, his eyes going wide as he glances to Napoleon. “You did not warn me it was so soft.” 

Napoleon chuckles. “The mighty Kuryakin, taken down by soft cake.” 

“Is this what Christmas feels like?” he asks them, genuinely. 

Gaby answers before Napoleon can: “We’re meant to have a tree and badly wrapped presents but we’ve got received a new mission that starts tomorrow so there isn’t enough time.”

It takes Napoleon half a second to splutter. “Tomorrow?” 

Nodding, Gaby swallows she piece of cake she’d eaten and glances between them. “It’s an emergency so Waverly couldn’t find a way to give us a break for Christmas.” 

Napoleon groans. “I had plans!” 

“What plans?” Illya asks, having finished his piece of cake by this point. 

His face flushing slightly in embarrassment, Napoleon’s gaze shifts to the floor as he lets out a small mumble: “Badly wrapped presents.” 

Now it’s Illya and Gaby’s turn to share a look, both of them knowing they hadn’t planned to get each other gifts and feeling slightly bad. Napoleon is not widely known for his sentiments so his plan to get them gifts truly means more than they can articulate. 

“It’s alright, Napoleon, we can do that on New Year’s, right?” Gaby asks brightly and more or less rhetorically.

He nods but Illya is not convinced his spirits have been lifted so he nudges Napoleon gently. “Can I ask favour? Will you bake your, uh, cookies again? They are much better than this cake.” 

“What?” Napoleon asks, his annoyance melting to pleasant confusion. “But you adore this cake, you just proved that.” 

Illya’s smile doesn’t have to be faked when he replies: “But I love your baking more.” 

“Really?” Napoleon’s voice is quiet, stripped of its usual confidence, and Illya has never been so taken aback by someone’s voice in his life. 

Sensing that neither of them will notice, Gaby quickly rises so she can set up her plan to give them some kind of gift. Sure enough, they’re still staring at each other when she gets back, meaning that she can pointedly clear her throat and watch as they scramble to appear poised, turning to her with questions in their eyes. 

“We don’t have forever, you know. If you want to get those cookies baked, you might want to start now,” she says casually, raising her eyebrows at them, almost from muscle memory at this point because of how many times she’s done it before.

Illya recovers first, nodding briskly. “Ready, Cowboy?”

Napoleon beams at him, whether or not he knows it. He probably doesn’t, it’s not an action he would accept as part of his usual behaviour. So the two of them get up and, with a little persuasion from Gaby, leave their plates, heading to the kitchen empty-handed. 

They’ve only just stepped into the kitchen when Illya pauses. “What is that?”

“Hmm?” Napoleon turns, having been thinking about whether or not to add chocolate chips to his cookies or not. 

As he turns back around, the first thing he does is internally curse Gaby. 

Mistletoe. 

Of course she’d do something like that, he should have seen it coming. He could easily just lie to Illya, he knows he could, but dishonestly towards his team isn’t something he wants to indulge in, ever. He sighs, glancing at the small, oblivious white berries.

“It’s called mistletoe,” he says eventually. 

Illya frowns. “It has purpose involving feet?” 

Napoleon chuckles before shaking his head. “Not quite, Peril. It’s, uh- well, if two people stand under it together, they’re meant to- they’re meant to kiss before they continue walking.” 

“Oh,” Illya says blankly, staring at the little plant with curiosity. He glances at Napoleon and his eyes are filled with both hope and fear, which Napoleon hadn’t even thought physically possible for him. 

Taking the emotions in Illya’s eyes to mean he’s uncomfortable, Napoleon laughs lightly, shaking his head. “It’s just Gaby having some fun, I’m sure, we don’t have to humour her.”

“Oh,” Illya repeats, as if the entire English language has failed to satisfy him.

Napoleon bites his lip, then reaches up to grab the mistletoe, wondering how on earth Gaby had placed it there. “I can just relocate this then…”

Just as his fingers are brushing the berries, Illya’s hand envelops his wrist, causing him to freeze, a shiver running along his arm despite the warmth in their apartment. He looks up to see Illya frowning and clearly thinking something over.

“I thought traditions were meant to be kept?” Illya’s voice is smooth, calm. 

Napoleon’s jaw drops ever so slightly. “And... you’d be okay with that?”

Illya lifts his other hand to cup Napoleon’s cheek, his skin cool and soft and possibly full of adrenaline if the sparks on Napoleon’s face are anything to go by. 

“I would be more than okay with that,” Illya confirms, letting go of Napoleon’s wrist, “if that is something you want.”

Finally remembering that dignity is something he’s meant to have, Napoleon lowers his arm back down and takes a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more, Peril.”

“Then take deep breath, Cowboy,” Illya instructs, a slightly serious expression on his face.

“What? Wh-” 

Illya fulfils the tradition of mistletoe.

By kissing Napoleon. 

And Napoleon forgets what oxygen is, never mind how to breathe it in. 

Then oxygen and everything else is irrelevant because as soon as their lips meet, they are the only thing that matters and they might as well be in deep space because neither of them can breathe properly but that’s okay because they’re practically inhaling each other’s happiness and that’s enough to keep them going until they’re slightly dizzy, both donning impossibly bright smiles and dazzling glints in their eyes. 

Napoleon pulls back first, not because he wants to but because he knows he might otherwise fall and that’s not something he wants to happen just after he’s discovered his appreciation for mistletoe and his love for Illya’s oxygen.

“Is not bad tradition,” Illya murmurs ever so gently. 

A small, breathless chuckle escapes Napoleon as he nods. “It’s probably the best one.” 

They stay there until they can breathe again, simply enjoying the feeling of reciprocity and laughing when Gaby smugly yells ‘Merry Christmas!’ at them before her bedroom door slams, signalling that they’ve been left alone for the night. 

“Still want to bake those cookies, Peril?” Napoleon asks, not even trying to hide the euphoria in his voice. 

A fond look in his eyes, Illya nods slowly. “Would not be early Christmas without them.” 

Still, neither of them move, not wanting to disenchant the moment and disturb the magic of it. It’s almost a staring contest, except that they’re gazing and competition may just be the last thing on their minds.

Only when their eyes water and their lungs throw a tantrum do they move, making more of a mess than actual cookies, trading soft kisses rather than questions and answers about the recipe, knowing they have to be up early the next day but electing to forget about that in favour of spending as many seconds with each other as possible.

Once the dubious cookies to be are in the oven, Napoleon wraps his arms around Illya and smiles up at him for the millionth time that evening. “Do you like Christmas yet?”

Illya plants a small kiss on Napoleon’s forehead and brushes a chocolate chip off his curls, his eyes positively twinkling. “I like you.” 

Napoleon’s blush is redder than the Christmas hats they’d discarded without noticing but he doesn’t mind because it gives him an excuse to hide his face under Illya’s chin and breathe in the scent of sugar and wine and something sharp that he can’t quite place.

Illya pulls him closer and nobody is around to blame him if he chooses to soothe the burn on Napoleon’s tongue - from choosing to check whether the mixture was turning out alright before thinking about it - with his own, or if he gets distracted from keeping an eye on the clock and instead chooses to steal Napoleon’s breath just because he now has the right to. 

The cookies almost burn. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry again if it wasn't exactly what you were after! Best wishes to you (and anyone else reading this) over the festive period! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading! Leave a kudos or comment?


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